Jim Butcher - Cold Days

“I arranged it, of course,” Mab said, in a voice that sounded exactly like Molly’s. “As a courtesy to the ancient one, just before your party started.”

At that, I shuddered. Molly’s voice coming from that inhumanly cold face was . . . just wrong.

“Lily,” I said. “She waved her hand over my chest, as if she could detect the influence of the adversary.”

Mab’s lips pressed into a firm line. “Yes.”

“Could she?” I asked.

“Of course not,” Mab said. “Were it so simple a task, the adversary would be no threat. Not even the Gatekeeper, at the focus of his power, can be absolutely certain.”

“Then why would she think she could?” I asked. Then I answered my own question. “Because Maeve led her to believe that she could. All Maeve had to do was lie, and maybe sacrifice a couple of the adversary’s pawns to make it seem real. Then she could have Lily wave her hands at her, and ‘prove’ to her that Maeve was clean of any taint. And Lily wasn’t experienced enough to know any better. After that, Lily would have bought just about anything Maeve was selling.”

“Obviously,” Mab said, her tone mildly acidic. “Have you any questions you cannot answer for yourself?”

I clenched my jaw and relaxed it a couple of times. Then I asked, “Was it hard for you? Tonight?”

“Hard?” Mab asked.

“She was your daughter,” I said.

Mab became very silent, and very still. She considered the ground around us, and paced up and down a bit, slowly, frowning, as if trying to remember the lyrics of a song from her childhood.

Finally she became still again, closing her eyes.

“Even tonight, with everything going to hell, you couldn’t hurt her,” I said.

Mab opened her eyes and stared down through a gap in the trees at the vast waters of Lake Michigan.

“A few years back, you got angry. So angry that when you spoke it made people bleed from the ears. That was why. Because you figured out that the adversary had taken Maeve. And it hurt. To know that the adversary had gotten to her.”

“It was the knife,” Mab said.

“Knife?”

“Morgana’s athame,” Mab said in a neutral tone—but her eyes were far away. “The one given her by the Red Court at Bianca’s masquerade. That was how the Leanansidhe was tainted—and your godmother spread it to Maeve before I could set it right.”

“Oh,” I said. I’d been at that party.

Mab turned to me abruptly and said, “I would lay them to rest upon the island, the fallen Ladies, if that does not offend you.”

“It doesn’t,” I said. “But check with the island.”

“I shall. Please excuse me.” She turned and began walking away.

“You didn’t answer my question,” I said.

She stopped, her back straight.

“Was it hard for you to kill Maeve?”

Mab did not turn around. When she spoke, her voice had something in it I had never heard there before and never heard again—uncertainty. Vulnerability.

“I was mortal once, you know,” she said, very quietly.

And then she kept walking toward her daughter’s body, while I stared angrily . . . sadly . . . thoughtfully after her.

The rest of the night passed without anyone getting killed. I sat down with my back against the outside wall of the cottage, to keep an eye on my “guests” down the hill, but when I blinked a few seconds later, my eyes stuck shut, and then didn’t open again until I heard, distantly, a bird twittering.

Footsteps came crunching up the hill, and I opened my eyes to see Kringle approaching. His red cloak and gleaming mail were stained with black ichor, the hilt of his sword was simply missing a chunk, as if it had been bitten away, and his mouth was set in a wide, pleased smile. “Dresden,” he said calmly.

“Kringle.”

“Long night?”

“Long day,” I said. Someone, during the night, had covered me with an old woolen army surplus blanket that had been in a plastic storage box in the cottage. I eyed him. “Have fun?”

A low, warm rumble of a laugh bubbled in his chest. “Very much so. If I don’t get into a good battle every few years, life just isn’t the same.”

“Even if it’s on Halloween?” I asked.

He eyed me, and his smile became wider and more impish. “Especially then,” he said. “How’s the leg?”

I grunted and checked. Butters’s dressing had stayed on throughout the events of the night. The constant, burning sting was gone, and I peeled off the dressing to see that the little wound on my leg had finally scabbed over. “Looks like I’ll live.”

“Hawthorn dart,” Kringle said. “Nasty stuff. Hawthorn wood burns hot, and doesn’t care for creatures of Winter.” His expression sobered. “I’ve a message for you.”

“Ah?” I asked.

“Mab has taken the new Ladies with her,” he said. “She said to tell you that the new Winter Lady would be returned safely to her apartment in a few days, after some brief and gentle instruction. Mab is on excellent terms with the svartalves, and anticipates no problems with your apprentice’s . . . new position.”

“That’s . . . good, I guess,” I said.

“It is,” Kringle replied. “Dresden . . . this is the business of the Queens. I advise you not to attempt to interfere with it.”

“I already interfered,” I said.

Kringle straightened, and his fierce smile became somehow satisfied. “Aye? Like to live dangerously, do you?” He leaned a little closer and lowered his voice. “Never let her make you cringe—but never challenge her pride, wizard. I don’t know exactly what passed between you, but I suspect that if it had been witnessed by another, she would break you to pieces. I’ve seen it before. Terrible pride in that creature. She’ll never bend it.”

“She’ll never bend,” I said. “That’s okay. I can respect that.”

“Could be that you can,” Kringle said. He nodded to me and turned to go.

“Hey,” I said.

He turned to me pleasantly.

“The whole Winter Knight thing,” I said. “It’s made me stronger.”

“True enough,” he said.

“But not that much stronger,” I said. “You could have beaten me last night.”

“Oh?” Kringle’s smile faded—except from his eyes.

“And I’ve seen goblins move a few times,” I said. “The Erlking could have gotten out of the way of that shot.”

“Really?”

“You meant me to have the Wild Hunt.”

“No one can be given a power like the Wild Hunt, Dresden,” Kringle said. “He can only take it.”

“Really?” I said, as drily as I knew how.

That got another laugh from Kringle. “You have guts and will, mortal. It had to be shown, or the Hunt would never have accepted you.”

“Maybe I’ll just punch you out whenever I feel like it, then,” I said.

“Maybe you’ll try,” Kringle replied amiably. He looked out at the lightening sky and let out a satisfied breath. “It was Halloween, Dresden. You put on a mask for a time. That’s all.” He looked directly at me and said, “Many, many mantles are worn—or discarded—on Halloween night, wizard.”

“You mean masks?” I asked, frowning.

“Masks, mantles,” Kringle said. “What’s the difference?”

He winked at me.

And for the briefest fraction of a second, the shadows falling from the tower and the cottage in the gathering morning behind us seemed to flow together. The eye he winked with vanished behind a stripe of shadow and what looked like a wide scar. His face seemed leaner, and for that instant I saw Vadderung’s wolfish features lurking inside Kringle’s.

I sat straight up, staring.

Kringle finished his wink, turned jauntily, and started walking down the hill, humming “Here Comes Santa Claus” in a rumbling bass voice.